John shrugs and downs his pint. “Well, someone did. Who’s for another round?”
Jyoti raises her empty glass in assent. Tony sneaks a look at Felicity. He motions toward the door with his eyes, and she gives a small nod. First the kiss under the sycamore tree, and now the small nod. What a night.
“I’m going to walk Felicity home,” says Tony.
“I’ll bet you are,” says John, then extends his hand. “Felicity, a great pleasure. You’ve got a good one here.”
“Thank you,” says Felicity. “And thank you for the graphic descriptions of the murder.”
“Not at all,” says John. “You wouldn’t get that at The Flagon.”
Jyoti stands too and embraces Felicity. “I hope we see a lot more of you in Axley.”
“I hope so too,” says Felicity.
As Felicity turns, letting Tony help her into her jacket, Jyoti puts her hand on her heart and nods at Tony. Tony smiles in return. When was the last good thing that happened to him?
He follows Felicity out into the summer evening air, and they link arms and walk up the hill toward Steve’s house. Tony carries her overnight bag.
“It’s very beautiful here,” says Felicity. “I might come back again, you know.”
“I think my friends liked you,” says Tony.
“I liked them too,” says Felicity. “What was that about Dubai?”
“Honestly?” says Tony. “They drink a fair bit, those two. A couple of weeks ago John said he saw Camilla Parker Bowles in the Brockenhurst Co-op.”
Felicity smiles.
“This is us,” says Tony, as they reach Steve’s cottage.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” says Felicity. “And so much more private than the sycamore tree. Will you join me for a coffee, Tony?”
“I don’t really drink cof—” Tony starts, before catching Felicity’s look. “Of course. I’ll get you settled in, show you where the fuse box is.”
As he puts Steve’s spare key in the lock, Tony could swear he sees a flash of light from an upstairs window. As if a curtain has been drawn back and quickly replaced.
Is someone in the house? Impossible. But he opens the door with care, just in case.
As Felicity slips off her jacket, Tony jumps at a sudden noise. Then sees a familiar black cat pad down the stairs with something to say for himself.
Of course there was no one in the house.
It was just Trouble.
61
Amy needs to stay awake just a while longer. Fortunately she has thinking to do. Thinking about Henk van Veen, thinking about Jeff, thinking about Joe Blow and François Loubet. What has she got herself caught up in here?
She thinks about being killed. Thinks about Steve being killed. Thinks about Adam being on the other side of the world.
When did she become so sentimental? It’s ridiculous.
One thing she can control is being good at her job. Trusting her instincts and taking pains.
Whoever is trying to kill her is no fool. They’ve got away with killing four people already, with almost no leads left behind. They hired Kevin to kill her, and he wasn’t bad. He wasn’t good enough, but not many are. You can prepare for pretty much anything in this game, but nobody expects to be bludgeoned by a shoulder-padded novelist with a cinematography Oscar. That was bad luck.
It follows therefore that Eddie Flood is no fool either. Whether Henk hired him, or Loubet hired him, or Henk is Loubet, Eddie will be a professional. A professional who just fell for a sucker’s trick and flew to Hawaii. Will they really catch Eddie out with the same trick twice? Amy doubts it.
It’s lovely to believe that Eddie is, even now, enjoying a gin and tonic on his way to Fiji, but Amy is placing a different bet. Amy is placing a bet that Eddie is on the plane with the call sign F716A that left St. Lucia just three hours after her own.
And that’s why she has broken into this very comfortable Mercedes in the long-stay car park of Dublin Airport, with a perfect view of the taxi queue. Below her is a floral display spelling out Welcome to Dublin. She plans to give Eddie a welcome of her own. Follow him, question him, and, if it comes to it, kill him. If that happens tonight, it will have to be with her bare hands.
It is very possible, though, that Eddie won’t even know who has hired him. Kevin hadn’t seemed to.
If Eddie is on that plane, no doubt he’ll rest up in Dublin for the day, before heading to Cork in the morning. The row of taxis is getting very little business at this time of night, the drivers all standing around a single car and discussing the events of their days.
Flight F716A touched down about fifteen minutes ago. Amy gives Eddie twenty-five minutes or so to taxi toward the terminal and to clear customs.
Amy has tried to find who chartered flight F716A, with very little luck. The world of private jets can be opaque at times.
The airport is quieting down, and the electronic doors on the front of the terminal are shut more than they’re open. Every time they burp someone out Amy is on full alert.
It’s all very well thinking about Henk, and about François Loubet, but Amy can’t stop a niggling little voice from saying Jeff Nolan’s name too. Jeff knew where all three victims would be, Jeff knew they were all unprotected, and, to cap it all, Jeff must have signed off on Kevin working with her and Rosie. Could Jeff be a killer? Yes. Would Jeff try to kill her? Again, all you can do is to trust your instincts, and her instincts say no.
Her instincts certainly say that Jeff is not dead, but perhaps that is her being sentimental again. It’s a curse.
Amy’s phone buzzes: a message from Rosie at the hotel. It’s a photograph. They’re in the residents’ bar, Rosie looking mischievous, raising a glass of Guinness to the camera, her arm round Steve, who is doing the same.
